Cotillion

Cotillion

Who plays the symphony of life?
What fiddler plucks the notes of strife,
and ecstasy, and all between?
Who leads this orchestra unseen?

Around the grand salon we see
the proof of his diversity.
Some trace a stately minuet
or waltz serenely in duet.

Some clearly march as to a dirge,
while those whose fantasies converge
are wild-eyed in a dervish spin,
flung by cacophony within.

Enveiled in rhapsody sublime,
he meters out the gift of time.
Whenever two hearts sing as one,
the song is far too quickly done.

Yet should our dream to nightmare turn,
the music slows until we yearn--
nay, grieve!--to hear the final strain
of his perpetual refrain.

Through eons past to futures cold
he taunts us with his concert bold,
and doles out every carelessly
his syncopated harmony.

We cannot let him set the pace.
We must the canticle embrace.
Although divine his theme may be,
We own the coreography. 

Dilly 1985